Vows of Silence
by Christine9
Summary: *AU* all chock full of M/R... Mark helps Roger get over a habit, and now the nights are becoming increasingly treasured; Roger and Mark are mushy. 9-12-02: finally all posted.
1. Mid-April

Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me, except for Rick- but I don't really want him anyway. ::shrug:: Jonathan Larson owns it all.  
  
Author's Note: This is my first actual story in a while (besides a songfic I posted a while back..) and I'm not so sure I should be putting this out there, but I'm actually pretty proud of it. I'll wait for some feed back before I post the next chapter. This is AU, so don't expect this to lead into the show, or even include April at all. Now that I think about it, it doesn't include much of anyone besides Mark and Roger. And a little Maureen. Oh, and Rick. But I made him up and he's one-dimensional so it doesn't matter. Anyway, I hope this is enjoyed, and I'm going out on a limb here... and I bring you:  
  
Vows of Silence by Christine Hughes  
  
I didn't notice. I'm the designated observer, and I didn't notice. I'm the one of us who fades into black and watches everyone else go on with their lives. But not this time... how could I miss this? I suppose the reason's name is Maureen. Not that I'm blaming this on her, it's just that I got caught up in our whirlwind of a relationship, which is another story in itself. But between the fights, accusations, lies, apologies, and make- up sex, there wasn't much time for me to notice the drug addiction or a friend who is excellent at hiding it.  
  
The first time I noticed was when I was home at the loft because Maureen was working late- she had gone through a period where she worked at a small bookstore on 12th.  
  
About 3:00 am, I was awoken by fits of laughter and stumbling. Ah, another one of Roger's late-night club trash endeavors. I lay awake staring out the window of my bedroom, listening to the mumbles and worried questions of "Do you have it?" and "Where is it?" I assumed the comments were references to condoms or another sexual instrument until "How much?", "Give me that," and "That's too much," floated through the thin wall separating our two bedrooms.  
  
I decided not to think too much about it. Roger's been partying for years; he's a smart guy and can take care of himself. I went into his room the next morning to wake him up and held up a little empty plastic bag in front of his face, "Uh... Roger?"  
  
He struggled to sit up in his bed and look at me. "It's nothing."  
  
"What kind of nothing?"  
  
"Just club stuff..." He laid back down. For some reason I accepted that answer. I guess I was just happy to have gotten an answer at all without a fight.  
  
After that, I pushed thoughts of Roger running around the entire Lower East side with whatever in his system to the back of my mind. The next week, Maureen broke up with me and I was on an emotional roller coaster of my own. I got wrapped up in my own misery, choosing it over subtle signs of spiraling addiction. But when I gradually got over Maureen and came back to Earth, I couldn't help but notice Roger's painfully obvious habit of little plastic bags and needles. I still can't. It's been three months since I first heard those words through my bedroom wall, and I still haven't questioned him since that morning.  
  
It all started out as what seemed like a casual and harmless practice. He'd come home high occasionally, then it started becoming more frequent. But his use was so gradual that I never knew when to step in. I guess I had false hope he would stop.  
  
I don't know how to talk to him. Roger doesn't make it easy to be honest. Especially now, seeing as he's not even the same person he was before. He has two moods: high/passive/goofy/ebullient or crashing/angry/unreasonable/malicious. I can't even talk to him about anything anymore; serious talks are out of the question.  
  
It's late and I'm waiting up for him, again. Despite the fact he barely speaks to me, I wait for the loft door slam every night before returning to my room. I'm reading on the couch facing away from the door. I hear the familiar sound of his boots stomping up the stairs. The door swings open, hitting the counter and bounces back. Lovely, crashing.  
  
"Hey Rog,"  
  
He grunts and walks to his room.  
  
"How was the night out?" I try to continue a conversation, but Roger is busy searching through his drawers in the dresser for a little bag of white powder. I know it's the only thing on his mind right now, as always. He finally discovers the bag and needle in the second drawer of his side table. He tries to walk past me to the kitchen but I stop him.  
  
"Move."  
  
"Roger," I pause. What do I say? What can I say about this? "What are you doing?"  
  
"Going to the kitchen, now move," He tries to get past me again, but I shove him back.  
  
"Roger, what the fuck are you doing to yourself?"  
  
"Nothing that concerns you."  
  
"Bullshit. This concerns me and you know it." God, this has everything to do with me, if he only knew to what extent. The fact that he doesn't give a shit about himself kills me. But what kills me even more is the fact that I can't do anything about it. My best friend is killing himself, and me in the process.  
  
"No. It doesn't," He's trying to push me out of the way but I don't move for him.  
  
"Mark! Get the fuck out of the way!" He's pushing me and I'm trying to lock us into his bedroom. He wants the kitchen. He wants the spoon in the kitchen to heat the smack so he can shoot up. I'll be damned if he does it without a fight from me.  
  
He finally puts his hand on my chest and shoves me aside into the doorframe. He swiftly opens the drawer, obtaining a metal spoon. Ignoring the immense pain in my back, I try to intercept him by shutting and locking the doors to the bathroom and his room, then standing in front of them. He'll go anywhere that he can get away from me to be with his best friend.  
  
I used to be that best friend. We laughed, we teased each other, we talked, we lived. Now, Roger's not even a person anymore. The white powder holds the weight of Roger's world. His thoughts are engulfed by his desire and need to feel that warm liquid shooting into his arm and flowing all over his body. He now needs that reeling, happy, detached high to survive.  
  
But Roger's never actually shot up in front of me on purpose. I've seen him snort things and take pills before... but the only time I've ever seen him with a needle in his arm was when I walked in on him once. My eyes grew wide and I slowly backed out of the room, and he never noticed.  
  
Roger sees me attempting to prevent his return to a private room and he tries to quickly walk past me, but I step in front of him, "They're locked."  
  
"Mark, get the fuck out of my way"  
  
"They're locked," I repeat. This is the only way I can think of to prevent this. He moves past me, checking the doors of his own room and the bathroom. "What the fuck!" He moves on to my room.  
  
Shit. I closed my door but I didn't lock it. He turns the knob and the door flies open. He goes in after it, closes, and locks it. I run over to the door and start pounding on it.  
  
"Roger! Let me in. Open the fucking door!" I keep pounding in vain, obviously getting no response. I stand and rest my forehead on the door, which is scrawled with my and Roger's writing from years past. A few minutes pass and Roger opens the door.  
  
"Hey Mark," he slurs at me. Fuck this, I cannot deal with him high right now. I grab the spoon off of my own bed, walk over to the kitchen drawer, and take those spoons too. I grab my camera and a key, and then exit the loft. Albeit he probably has other means of obtaining spoons, but less access to the means of getting the drug in the right form, the harder it is for him to get high. 


	2. Mid-June

Disclaimer: No, I don't own them... ::weeps:: Although... with a little finagling, you never know...  
  
Author's Note: Thank you so much for the reviews- especially Shin Cohen. It made me so happy! ::does a jig:: Anyway, I changed the title of the last chapter to let you know that it took place mid-April, and this one takes place mid-June.  
  
  
  
Despite my best efforts, Roger's partying increased with band members, girls, and the many friends he always seemed to have. Some night he didn't come home at all. The first morning that I woke up at 8am and Roger wasn't home, complete fear engulfed my mind. I abandoned my warm bed, pulled on shoes, and ventured around the Lower East Side. I checked his normal bars, all of which were closed. I knocked on the doors of current or ex-band mates without success. I returned home, drained of ideas, and sure enough a few hours later, Roger dragged himself through the door of the loft. These nights became more common, almost usual. I knew that if he wasn't back by 4:30, he's not coming home on his own. I would search, and sometimes even find him to bring him home with me. But one early morning when I returned from such a search, I found Roger sitting on our bathroom floor; so sick he could barely walk.  
  
"Mark," he manages to choke out as he sits on the tile floor and rests his head against the off-white walls.  
  
"Hey... where were you? I went out looking for you," I notice his demeanor, "Are you okay?" I speak to him more nicely than I usually do, because of the fact I've never seen him like this, sitting on our floor, sweating, shivering, throwing up, and bleeding.  
  
"Yeah, I know... I was out."  
  
"I know," I crouch down by his side as he closes his eyes. I now notice his nose had been bleeding and he has a black eye. "What happened to you?"  
  
He clenches his fists, obviously trying to handle an immense amount of pain. "I got into a fight."  
  
I stand up and wet a towel, "Over what?" I crouch back down and hold it out to him.  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"Bullshit."  
  
"Money."  
  
I take a deep breath. His eyes are closed so he doesn't see me holding the towel out to him. I gently dab his face with it. His body tenses and he opens his eyes.  
  
"Sorry. Here." I hand him the towel, now partly stained red. He takes it from me and wipes his face. He lowers his hands, and moves over to the toilet and throws up into it. I go and sit by him on the edge of the tub. I rub his back as he continues to empty the contents of his stomach. The pyrotechnics cease and he wipes his face with the towel.  
  
"Feel better?"  
  
"A little. I think I'm done for now."  
  
"Wanna go lay down?"  
  
"Yeah," I help him up off the ground and he collapses as soon as he gets upright. I catch him under his arms, "I got it," he tells me, but collapses in pain as soon as I let my grip on him go. I help him to his bed, lay him down, put a pillow under his head and a blanket over him. He has his eyes closed and is taking in shaky deep breaths. I sit on the bed beside him.  
  
"My dealer," he gets out between breaths, "My dealer beat me up."  
  
"Yeah, I figured," I know his dealer would be the only person to beat him up for money. I assume Roger ran out of things to steal or pawn. Our loft has lost appliances, not-so-great electronics, and a guitar. I was forced to never leave my camera unattended if I still wanted to own it. I'm guessing he ran out of things for drug money, hence his black eye and withdrawal symptoms.  
  
I pry his right hand open and slip my hand into it. He opens his green eyes and looks into mine. "Rog, you'll be okay."  
  
He takes a deep breath and looks at our hands, "Mark, I'm gonna hurt you."  
  
"Wouldn't be the first time," I give him a small smile. He lifts his head up only to be his with another wave of pain, dizziness, and nausea. He drops his head back onto the pillow and his grip on my hand tightens. His painted black nails dig into my skin, but all I can think about now is making Roger feel better.  
  
I start to talk about my new film ideas. He hasn't been around, so this is all new to him, if he's listening. I ramble on and on about trivial details that he doesn't understand. Every so often I ask him a question that requires a one word answer, to make sure he's still with me.  
  
"...so I dunno, I'm thinking I should finish my other two before I start this new one. But maybe I'll just forget about those two, they weren't very original anyway. But the new one will take a lot of time. Yeah, I'm just gonna screw those other two, Sound good?"  
  
He nods and gives me an "Uh huh."  
  
His grip on me loosens a little as I speak. I keep talking because I don't know what else to do. At least he knows I'm here... Finally I stop talking, due to the fact I don't have anything left to say. I look at him. Beads of sweat line his forehead. His eyes are squeezed shut, and he's breathing heavily.  
  
"How ya doing?"  
  
"Alright..."  
  
I glance at the clock, "It's 6:30," I contemplate going to my room. "Want me to stay?"  
  
He nods. I loosen my grip on his hand and he does the same. I get up and take off my shoes, walk around to the other side of the bed, turn off the light and climb back in. "Need anything?"  
  
He shakes his head. I lay next to him and his hand find mine. I rub his hand with my thumb and he tries to lift his head again, but he falls back to the pillow and his whole body tenses. We don't speak for a few minutes.  
  
"Mark?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I was going to kill myself," His words are choked and I can tell he's almost crying.  
  
I don't know why he's telling me this, and I don't know what to say, so I say nothing. But I do pull closer to him. I can't imagine life without Roger. He's been my best friend for years... I'm scared to even think about what would happen to me without him, so I don't let myself.  
  
"Can you help me?" He's crying now, I can hear it in his strangled words. God, what I would have done for this moment months ago. I had tried to talk to him after that first time, I'd even recruited other people, pleased, cried, begged, and reasoned with him. But we knew that as much as we tried to save him, he could only accept help when he wanted it. And now he's finally realized... he finally wants help. That simple question changed everything for both of us.  
  
I prop myself up and even though it's dark, the light from his window allows me to find his glistening eyes and look into them. "Yeah," I pause and nod, "Yes... I'll help you. Don't worry, we'll get you help." I lay down again and move closer to him and put my arm around his shoulders to his head is resting on my stomach.  
  
A huge feeling of relief washes over me. I'll look up a rehab in the morning... and I'll break down and call my mother, which is pretty much the only way we can get medical treatment. My mother is willing to send us money... some sort of compensation for the relationship we never had. But as much as I hate getting money from her, Roger finally wants help. Somehow he finally realized that he needs help; he wants to get better.  
  
I look down at him. His eyes are closed and he's breathing more normally. He looks like a little boy with his hand draped across my stomach. His grip on my hand loosens and we both get lost in an unconscious sleep. 


	3. End of July

Disclaimer: ::picks out black clothing and locates crowbar:: Sadly, I do not own them yet. Jonathan Larson owns it all. I just like to mess with them. ::nod::  
  
Author's Note: Here you see just how *AU* this is- It does not even follow the same plot that is implicated by the show. So basically, I'm just using the characters, and the loft, and the city. Everything else has mysteriously vanished. ::shrug:: It's my story and I can have my way with it. ::evil grin:: Aaaand here we go with chapter three!  
  
  
  
I slowly fight my way to consciousness as heavy rain slams against the thin glass windows of the loft, as I lay entangled in sheets on my not- so-comfortable bed. I try unsuccessfully to fall back asleep, due to the loud rumble of thunder just outside the wall next to my head. The air is heavy and thick, and hot enough to make me feel suffocated, even if I am wearing only boxers. Lightning flashes and for a moment and my messy room strewn with clothes and miscellaneous film objects, is illuminated. I finally give up, throw off the sheet, and reach over to pick up my glasses from the cluttered side-table. I sit up and focus on my digital clock, which is blank. No power, great.  
  
I exit my room, and look over to see a window Roger had probably left open. I retrieve a towel to clean up the pool of water that has formed on the floor, but I can't bring myself to close it; it's the only source of air circulation. The room is dark... but my eyes find a figure lying on his back and breathing lightly on the couch. Apparently Roger slept out here because of the heat. It is a lot cooler by the open window; maybe Roger had a good idea. He stirs and drops his arm off the edge of the couch making the scars of track marks clearly visible. He takes in a deep breath as I sit down in a chair by the couch, putting my feet up on the low table in front of me and leaning my head back.  
  
As much as people hate the heat in the city, I've come to love it. These almost-sleepless nights in the living room give me a sense of comfort; no matter what's happening in my life, summers in New York will always be the same.  
  
Roger's been out of rehab for two weeks now, paid for courtesy of my mother. As much as I hate accepting money from her, it was necessary this time. I went with him when he signed himself into rehab.  
  
He called a few days later, asking me to come visit, contrary to his previous request for me to just wait until he was released. I came to the clinic as he requested, and I was brought into a stark white room to see my best friend. He sat me down and, with tears in his eyes, told me he tested positive for HIV. At first I couldn't believe it, Roger was a strong healthy guy who can handle things like alcohol, drugs, fights, the flu... this wasn't fair. He deserved to live a long, happy life. I had never considered the fact that Roger might catch something. My world crumbled around me as we stood hugging for seconds... minutes... We both tried to choke back tears but gave up when we realized it was a futile attempt. I asked him if he was scared and all he said to me was "Mark, I don't want to die."  
  
We talked about it. A lot. I gave him my unconditional support, and though he didn't think so, I told him he could get through rehab and come home soon. In three weeks, I had bought back his guitar, and was back at the clinic hugging Roger tightly again, ready to return home. The first few days were difficult, Roger was a little hesitant to come back to the loft, but after a few days he got back to normal.  
  
Since then, Roger and I have gotten close... more of a type of intimacy. He and I talked about the addiction, suicide, withdrawal, rehab, HIV, family, childhood, Maureen, when we first met. Those late-night talks have often ended in tears, but they've brought us extremely close. We're honest now. No secrets, no deceptions, no lies. Except for one.  
  
The talks have also developed into more physical contact between the two of us. now sometimes we hold hands, hug, sit together, lay together... I don't know why, but it is the one thing we don't talk about, but just seem to accept.  
  
Until recently, I had never seriously thought about Roger in a romantic way. I had previously toyed with the possibility that I might be attracted to Roger, but until now, Roger's ever-straight behavior, our dating records, and the desire to prove everyone else wrong have deterred me from actually letting myself realize I love him. I'm in love with him.  
  
At first our physical contact was a casual, comforting act of friendship. Roger just needed extra support and I was the one to offer it. But each day as my feelings progress, my heart beats a little faster whenever he hugs me or we lay down together on the couch. And each day, I feel a little more inclined to know if he feels the same way.  
  
I wish I could revert to when we would just touch for Roger's benefit. Before my heart pounded, before all I thought of was him, before I wanted to kiss him... But each day I try that, the feeling in the pit of my stomach grows. I used to not question it, and silently hope that if I ignore it, then it would go away. That not helping, no amount of showers or walks can stop my thoughts of feelings, his movements, his smell, his body, our friendship, our proximity...  
  
I want to talk to him and know where we stand. We've talked about every other issue in our lives. But I think because I've been harboring this for so long, I can't even imagine talking to him about it. I know if Roger ever found out, the contact would cease all together. Touching him and yearning in silence is far better than solitude and no contact at all.  
  
Before rehab, Roger would barely let anyone touch him, and even now I'm the only one who can. He just seems to need this physical contact; the knowledge that someone is there for him, that someone is helping him and cares. Maybe he needs it because I'm the only one he trusts; maybe because I'm the only one who knows him now, maybe because he loves me the way I love him. But maybe I need it. Maybe we both do.  
  
I snap back to reality and find myself staring at Roger's form on the couch. His bare chest rises and falls under my gaze. I let my eyes wander over his body, though I've long since memorized its shape. A loud crash of thunder echoes in the loft; Roger stirs and opens his eyes.  
  
"Hey."  
  
"Hey. Couldn't sleep?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
"What time is it?"  
  
"Don't know. We don't have any power."  
  
He looks down at the inside of his arm and then covers it with his other hand. He reaches a hand out and wraps it in mine. 


	4. Late September

Disclaimer: No. Jonathan Larson owns them. Stop asking!  
  
Author's Note: Nothing really to say here except for thank you so much for the reviews! I appreciate them all. Hopefully slash won't be ruined in people's mind by the lovely, bright new addition to our little Broadway cast. ::rolls eyes:: Anyway, this chapter isn't super-exciting, but the fact that I had "shut" written as "shit" for a few weeks should keep some of you entertained. For 1.6 seconds, at least.  
  
  
  
  
  
I feel a chilly breeze on my back as I loom over the pot of soup I just emptied from a can. I abandon the stove and go shut the window. I look out of it to see the sun set on the limited amount of leaves in the Lower East Side turning from a carefree green to complex shades of oranges and reds.  
  
Roger has been going out more, this time safely. He stubbornly reconciled with the band after his mysterious hiatus, and they've been rehearsing regularly. Almost on cue from my thoughts, Roger swings open the loft door, and I turn to see him with his guitar case in hand.  
  
"Hey."  
  
"Hey," He's unhappy, I can tell from his voice. That's what six years of friendship will allow you to do.  
  
"How's rehearsal?" I cross the room back to the stove; he takes off his coat and sits cross-legged on the table facing me.  
  
"Fine," he shrugs and I just nod. If he wants to talk about it, he will. "It's not the same with the band."  
  
I turn to face him, "Whatdya mean?"  
  
"We don't get along anymore... we all have different views and can't agree on anything. I'm starting to think the only thing we had in common was smack."  
  
"Well... was it?"  
  
"Yeah, I guess. But now that I'm clean, they seem to think I'm some kind of sell-out and I'll eventually come crawling back." I give him a doubtful look.  
  
"I know, I don't get it either."  
  
"They're probably pissed you finally got your shit together."  
  
"Maybe. It's a lot harder than I thought."  
  
One thing about Roger is that he always feels the need to be part of a group. Be it a member of a band, or a friend in a group... Sure he'll always run off for some alone time, but the secure knowledge of a sustaining group is essential to him.  
  
"They make me feel like I'm betraying them somehow, and that I can't be included because I'm clean."  
  
"Well... then they're not worth your time."  
  
"It's not that easy," He snaps at me, but I've learned to not take it personally.  
  
"But if they make you feel guilty for taking care of yourself, then they're not great friends! Why do you put up with it?"  
  
"I can't just leave them without a member. I owe them that much."  
  
"You owe them shit."  
  
"Mark, you just don't get it."  
  
"I guess not," I turn around again to face the stove. He climbs off the table and goes to sit down on the couch.  
  
"I can't just leave them."  
  
"I know."  
  
I can tell he's getting upset over this... his band is one of the only things he's done outside of this loft until the last three months. Deep down, he really loves being with those guys. But the more time he spends with them, the more he realizes how different they all really are. He's also a lot more talented than the other band members are. I've always thought he was wasting his time with them, and he knows it. I've told him so many times he would do better as a single artist.  
  
Roger lays down now and rubs his eyes. I walk over to him, "Hey don't let it bother you too much. Think it over, and if it gets too bad, then you'll do what you have to."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"Yeah. Hey, want some soup?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
I walk back to the stove, and Roger sits up and looks at me over the back of the couch, "Uh, with what spoons?"  
  
I smile and hold up a plastic spoon. He smiles back at me and gets up to retrieve a bowl. 


	5. Early October

Disclaimer: Sadly, no I don't own them. All I own is a lot of EasyMac, Rent posters, and bootlegs.  
  
Author's Note: It gets interesting here, kids! I swear it does. I know, I know this AN isn't very interesting, but I'll try to spice it up in later chapters.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Roger! I'm going to get the mail," I yell to his closed door. I hear a muffled "okay" before he walks out of his room.  
  
"I'm going over to Chris' to get my amp before the show. You coming?"  
  
"Yeah, eleven, right? Rick's coming."  
  
"Okay," We grab our keys, exit the loft, and descend the stairs together. Roger keeps walking as I stop at the mailboxes on the first level and shuffle through the junk mail.  
  
"See you tonight."  
  
"Bye," I turn around and slowly traipse up the stairs to the loft. I unlock the door, throw half of the mail away, and then throw the rest of it onto the counter along with my keys.  
  
It's 10:00, and I should shower before this endeavor. Rick, a friend we made from downstairs, is meeting me at 10:30. We met him while terrorizing the building one day last year. Roger and I had locked ourselves out of the loft, and decided it would be fun to climb up the not- so-sturdy fire escapes all the way to our top floor windows. Rick was quick to assist and we ended up climbing to the roof for a few drinks. He comes to Roger's gigs with me and visits us every so often.  
  
I get into the shower and let the lukewarm water was over me. I can't help it, but my thoughts drift to Roger. Our physical contact hasn't changed. Somehow his hands and arms always seem to find mine. His soft green eyes plead with me to hold his hand or hug him or lay with him. Then the pleading and sparks of contact disappear when the night does, and the mornings are just as platonic as they were last year. I feel like we have a dirty latenight secret that no one talks about or acknowledges once daybreaks.  
  
I love holding and caressing his hand, I love touching him; I love being the one he goes to for comfort. It started out as comfort for Roger... but now I've begun to depend on it too. That's the only reason I can't bring myself to talk to him about it. I need the contact as much as he does, and it makes me happier than anything else. I've begun to loathe the days and long for the nights. But just as I'm so happy while in his arms, I'm so scared it will go away.  
  
Still undecided in my thoughts, I get out of the shower and wrap a towel around me. I walk out of the bathroom to see Roger sitting on the table with his head in his hands, and his guitar and amp on the floor next to him.  
  
"No gig tonight?"  
  
He doesn't look up, "We broke up."  
  
"What? Why?"  
  
"'Cause I said I wanted out."  
  
"Well... do you?" I walk over to him.  
  
"I guess," He takes his hands away from his head.  
  
I nodded and made my way to my room. I won't force him to talk about it... he's upset and the last thing he needs is shit from me. I put on boxers and pants, then go over and sit next to him on the table, "I'm sorry."  
  
"So am I."  
  
I get up and call Rick to tell him there's no gig. Roger moves to the couch and I go to my room to read in bed. A few minutes later he appears in my doorway and says nothing. "You gonna be okay?" I ask him. He seems to be getting more upset as the night progresses. He responds to my question only by walking over to my bed and climbing in. He wraps his left arm around my chest and I faintly smile to myself. There's nowhere else in the world I would rather be right now.  
  
He looks up at me and I stare into his eyes unflinchingly, trying to see if I can tell what he is thinking. I break away and then look back at him. He's still looking into my eyes. He moves closer to my face, closes his eyes and presses his lips against mine. I eagerly and immediately kiss back. With a clear head, I only think about the sensation of his rough lips finally on mine, his hand on my chest, my hand cupping his face. We deepen the kiss but he starts to pull away as I try and cling to his lips.  
  
I'm not sure what to do at this point, so I lay back down as we were before without looking at him. But he puts his hand on my face, forcing me to look at him. He moves towards me and kisses me again, this time short and simple. He returns to his original position and intertwines his fingers in mine.  
  
I have no idea what this means or what to think. Does Roger feel the same way I do? Did he just kiss me because he has no one else? Does this change anything? Is this still something that only happens at night? How do I act around him now? Why did he kiss me twice? Questions reel in my mind as I fall into a troubled sleep, still holding Roger against my chest. 


	6. Next Morning

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to Jonathan Larson. I just like to screw with them. ::nod::  
  
Author's Note: Thank you again for reviews! They make me so happy! Uhmm.. I don't have much to say besides sorry about the lag time between updates. Oh, and I got the idea for this chapter when I saw a Mark-esque guy sitting in Barnes and Noble. There you have it. Onward!  
  
  
  
  
  
The light streaming through the window fights its way to my eyes. I roll over and all the night's occurrences come flooding back and I realize I'm in bed alone. I find a post-it note scrawled with Roger's handwriting on the pillow next to me, "Went around to find gigs, be back later." Great. This gives me time to worry and deliberate over what to say to him. At least he spared us the awkwardness of waking up together.  
  
I'm not too sure what this means. Does a kiss change things between us? Is it just another nighttime display of affection? Will he try it again? Is it okay to kiss him now? Why did he kiss me? Sleep obviously did not curb my need for answers to these questions.  
  
I glance at the clock-- 12:23. I don't know when Roger left, meaning I don't know when he's coming home, and I'm not sure I want to be here when he does. Though it's not the wisest choice, I don't want to face him this soon. I shower, change, grab my coat, and set out for the Barnes & Noble a few blocks away. It's just something I like to do... There are so many Village denizens who sit for hours among the rows of books. It's a bit of a sanctuary for me I guess... no one really looks for me there. I usually end up in the film section, sometimes even taking notes. It's a comforting quiet place to think, rest, and read books I don't have to buy. It gives me a sense of anonymity... I can sit there for hours without being questioned or seeing anyone I know.  
  
I turn the corner onto Avenue C and I hear my name being called from behind me. I ignore it, assuming it's not me who's being spoken to.  
  
"Mark!" I turn around; it's Maureen.  
  
"Hey," we walk towards each other.  
  
"Where have you been?" She asks with a smile, which is a legitimate question. I haven't been very social these past few days. Screening phone calls, not calling, not going out much...  
  
"I dunno, around I guess..."  
  
"Are you okay?" She immediately notices my quiet, slightly disturbed demeanor.  
  
"Yeah, I'm just tired..." I use my typical excuse for when I don't want to say what's really wrong. She's the actress, not me.  
  
"Are you sure?" She never did buy that excuse.  
  
"Yeah, I'm sure. I'm fine."  
  
"Okay, I'm on my way to Joanne's, let me know if you need anything, okay?" No matter how much Maureen has been known to break peoples' hearts, especially mine, she really does care a lot. She's one of the most loyal people I know, ironic as that sounds.  
  
She'd told me about Joanne back in March... She sat me down and told me calmly that she'd found someone else, and immediately hurt and jealousy shot through my veins. And when she told me who it was, to be honest, I felt a little offended and... inadequate. But she assured me it wasn't my fault, it's just who she is. I got over it in time, and now I'm actually okay with it; they've been on and off ever since. She's one of the most honest, wildly real people I know... she had to follow her heart... It's just who she is.  
  
"Okay, thanks."  
  
"Bye hon."  
  
"Bye." She gives me a caring smile and turns back the way she came and I continue walking until I reach the Barnes & Noble.  
  
I ascend the stairs to the second floor and automatically find the film section. I browse and pick up "Directing the Film: Film Directors on Their Art". I sit cross-legged on the floor in the corner of two shelves and begin to read. See? This has gotten my mind off Roger already.  
  
Dammit.  
  
I can't decide what my feelings are in reference to him. Love, lust, fear, dread, worry... I try to keep reading but the feeling overwhelms me and I continue to read the words, but stop comprehending. I stop, take a deep breath and try to read again, a little more successful this time. A few minutes later, my thoughts of scene montages are interrupted by a soft voice.  
  
"Hey," I look up and see Roger.  
  
My heart lurches in my chest, "Hey..." I follow him with my eyes as he sits down next to me, looking at the book I'm holding in my lap. Our legs touch.  
  
"I went home and you weren't there."  
  
"How'd you find me here?"  
  
"You're not as discreet as you think you are." He offers me a little smile. I just nod, and neither of us speaks. We both know we have to talk about it, if we just let it go now, we'll never talk about it.  
  
"Roger, what are we doing?" I'm not so articulate, but I know he'll understand.  
  
He doesn't respond. I'm not sure if it's because he doesn't know what to say or because he doesn't want to say it. He shrugs a shoulder.  
  
"We have to talk about this," I speak in a hushed voice, as to not disturb the other people there. He says nothing. "Roger, just because the sun is up doesn't mean we can't talk about this."  
  
"About what? I don't know what's going on with us."  
  
"Right. Of course."  
  
He puts his head down in his hands, "Mark there's nothing going on between us. Last night was a mistake. It was just... nothing." He gets up and walks away from me.  
  
How can he sit here and tell me last night was a mistake? He kissed me. Twice. The look in his eyes... his eyes had that passionate, swirling flair that I haven't seen in so long. In all these weeks of just holding each other that look has gradually returned to his eyes. Last night was the first time I saw it completely.  
  
I know he's scared. Does he think I have everything figured out? I'm scared too... but he won't admit it to me. He knows he's weak but he hates to admit it, just like he hates admitting any weaknesses even though we both know he has them.  
  
We were so close before this... we talked about everything. And now he won't even talk about this. I know how I feel, but he won't admit a thing to me now. I knew I'd fuck this up somehow. Even though neither of us have ever talked about it, I guess in the back of my mind I knew it could never work out. It would be too much work... too complicated. Roger would be too scared to show any feeling besides denial... He's scared to let himself love and be loved.  
  
I'd be too scared to trust him with myself. All these years of friendship probably should result in a kind of huge trust, seeing as I've been to hell and back with him. But for some reason, it would be so hard for me to give all of myself to him. My perpetual fear of losing him thinks that maybe if I don't get involved, it won't hurt. But it's too late now, I've been involved since the day I met him. No amount of denying myself happiness will prevent pain. I'm willing to give this love a chance, but as simple as I wish it were, I'm not so sure anymore. I'm not so sure about anything now. 


	7. Late November

Disclaimer: Mark and Roger belong to the late, great Jonathan Larson.  
  
Author's Note: Well, after a little holiday to Florida, I am back and posting! Enjoy.  
  
  
  
Hopeful guitar chords float their way to my ears through Roger's bedroom door as I sit on the couch, surrounded by film reels, notes, and papers. This has become a typical scene for out loft, with usual visits from Maureen, Joanne, Collins, Benny, and Rick.  
  
Roger's been playing solo gigs lately around the Village, and a few uptown. He's also been furiously writing and working on a few new songs. I can hear notes, chords, and muffled words, but I can't make out specifics, even when he's in the same room. He sits hunched over, moving his lips and singing softly to himself, but nothing I can make out. He doesn't sing the new songs at gigs, but I hear bits and pieces of them at home. Roger's been surrounding himself with people from the music scene... I leave him to hang around after gigs to talk with other singer-songwriters. He's made some friendships and plays pretty regularly. He hasn't gotten back into drugs, as far as I can tell. I just feel relieved when I know he's in his own bed every night.  
  
I've been working on a new film, starring Maureen and other assorted friends of hers who responded to flyers I put up around our area. Editing it takes up most of my time and I'm thinking about entering it in a film festival when it's done.  
  
Roger and I haven't talked about a relationship since that afternoon in Barnes & Noble. I wanted to ask him about it, but could never get up the nerve to mention it again, and neither could he. We haven't touched in any way besides in a friends way, and we act completely platonic. It's almost as if those three months of hugging and touching got lost somewhere amidst the fear and denial that expanded to fill even the smallest smile in our loft.  
  
We used to talk... we still do, but not about things that matter, like we used to. We're both afraid of letting the other in, I think, because we both know what happened last time we did that. But my question is, would it be that bad?  
  
I hear Roger put away his guitar and open the door, "Hey I'm at... Brownies tonight, you coming?" Brownies is actually a really nice bar on Avenue A where Roger has played acoustic a few times. It's surprising to see him there, seeing as I'm so used to seeing him play trashy underground places.  
  
"Uh... yeah. Give me ten minutes?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
I push up my glasses and get up from my scattered mess. I call Rick, change into decent clothes, and gel my hair. I come out of my room to see Roger staring at the inside of the refrigerator.  
  
"Ready?"  
  
"Yeah," He grabs his bottled water off the table. Clad in worn dark jeans, a black tee shirt, and his usual combat boots, he grabs his leather jacket and guitar as we head out the door. We retrieve Rick and turn onto Avenue A. I can see the sign from where we are as a group of four guys and two girls, whom I recognize as Roger's drug-induced previous friends and band-mates, come walking towards us in an uproar of laughter and stumbles. Unfortunately, they recognize us, and Chris starts shouting Roger's name.  
  
"Oh Christ," I hear Roger mumble as he shoots me a look.  
  
"Roger! Roger, how's it goin' man?!" He's slurring his words and being held up by a blonde girl with too much eyeliner.  
  
"Hey guys, pretty good," Roger's not so enthusiastic.  
  
"Come chill with us, man. We're goin' to Mars Bar," Russ comes to the front of the group and gives Roger a sly smile. I shoot Roger a let's-get- the-hell-out-of-here look; Russ is Roger's ex-dealer.  
  
"Uh... No thanks."  
  
"Ohh, c'mon, man," He points to the case, "Where ya goin' with your guitar, pretty boy?"  
  
"Nowhere," Roger tries to evade the question.  
  
"Oh... Come on. Whatdya playing somewhere?"  
  
"Actually yeah..." He downplays it.  
  
"Oo Roger, playing again... sober?!" They all break into fits of laughter; "Sure I can't do you any favors?" I hear from Russ with a sly smile. Rick and I look at each other. We've had quite the amount of conversations about my constant fear that Roger might go back to his old way of life. But Rick's assured me that I'd be able to tell, and I should give Roger a little more credit than that.  
  
"No, I'm good, thanks. See you guys later..." We walk around them and continue on our way.  
  
"See you soooon, Rog," Russ yells at us down the block.  
  
Roger seems a bit distracted; we don't speak until we get there. Rick and I find a table and Roger goes to talk to some unidentified guys, presumably owners or bartenders. He gets up on stage and sits onto the stool provided with his guitar. He tunes it and does a mic check.  
  
The place actually has a descent amount of people in it. Most tables are full of guys in white tee shirts and black leather jackets ordering drinks for girls in barely-there tank tops. The audience murmur comes to a halt when Roger introduces himself into the microphone.  
  
Roger plays for about an hour; I know every song he plays by heart. There's something about him when he's onstage that's indescribable... you can't take your eyes off of him. He has such a great stage presence that you can't look away. He closes his eyes and sinks lovingly into his melodies and tangled words that you have to hear many times to understand what he's singing about. He seems genuinely happy onstage, sharing his music. He tells the audience background stories about what his songs are about and when he wrote them, but I always seem to catch him looking at me.  
  
After his set, he puts his guitar away and comes to see Rick and me. He still seems a bit distracted, but as we're talking, a girl, I'm guessing about nineteen approaches us. She has shoulder-length straight red hair, and is wearing jeans and a black v-neck shirt.  
  
"Excuse me? Roger?"  
  
We stop talking and Roger turns around, "Hi."  
  
"I just wanted to tell you that you did a great job."  
  
Roger smiles timidly, "Thanks."  
  
"I was wondering if you have a CD or anything for sale?"  
  
"Oh, no... I don't."  
  
"Oh... okay. Do you know when your next gig is?"  
  
"Mm..." Roger looks at me.  
  
"I think you're here again in two weeks... December...5th?"  
  
"Yeah," he turns back to her, "Here, December 5th at 11:00."  
  
"Okay, thanks. Good job," She smiles at him and turns away.  
  
Roger turns back to Rick and me, "Wow."  
  
"Looks like you have your first fan," Rick points out.  
  
"You sticking around?" I ask. Roger usually hangs around for the next act at the bar; chatting with whomever he can... he's trying to get his name out there.  
  
"Yeah, I think so," He looks around for someone, "You guys staying?" He looks at me.  
  
Rick shakes his head, "I think I'm just gonna go back home."  
  
"Yeah, me too."  
  
"Alright, wanna bring my guitar back?"  
  
"Sure," He looks me in the eyes and hands it to me.  
  
"Good job tonight."  
  
"Maybe. Thanks," He turns around toward the bar and gives a smile to the pretty bartender.  
  
Rick and I, carrying Roger's guitar, exit and walk down Avenue C. I feel like I'm violating Roger's privacy somehow... by carrying it. He usually never lets anyone touch it, and I feel a bit privileged to have it in my possession. His guitar is so important to him that I feel as though I'm carrying a part of him with me.  
  
My thoughts wander to thoughts of Roger performing... I've always preferred his acoustic stuff over songs he's done with the band. They're a lot more personal and have a certain Roger-ness about them. Sometimes it astounds me how talented he really is, and it worries me that he might not see it in himself, especially when he has a limited amount of time. I try not to think about it that way, and I usually don't... But it's always in the back of my mind. I've always tried to push him to do more with it, besides just playing gigs. I'm happy he's been hanging around with other guys who could maybe provide him with some connections.  
  
Rick senses my thoughts, "How are you?"  
  
I know what kind of answer he's looking for when he asks me that. He knows about Roger and me... He knows about our history of addiction, withdrawal, rehab, the hugging, the kisses. Since Collins is away at MIT, Rick really provides an outlet and advice for me about Roger. Sometimes when it gets too much for me to handle, I can go downstairs and talk to him about it. From the first day I met him, I could tell he was a psych major in college. He understands how I feel and gives me suggestions about what to do when I go back up those three flights of stairs. Rick's also a photographer, so we also talk about picture composition, and things like that. He's 28, five years older than I am. I guess those extra years provided him with some good experience. It's actually really nice to have someone to talk to about your romantic issues with your same-sex best friend, when you obviously can't talk to anyone else about it.  
  
"Good, I guess."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"No, not really," Seeing Roger play does something to me... It makes me love him even more, if that's possible. No matter who the songs are actually about, I can always picture them being about me. I know those words are meant for past girlfriends; I'm just disillusioned. I can remember being there when he wrote them, and the tears that were shed in the process. His music makes me feel closer to him...  
  
"Wanna talk about it?"  
  
I shake my head, "It's okay," We've talked about this hundreds of times before: Roger, how Roger makes me feel, how Roger's music makes me feel... I just don't feel like discussing it anymore, "I think I'm just gonna go home."  
  
We reach our building and I say goodnight and continue on when Rick stops and unlocks his door. I reach the loft and glance down at the scribble in Roger's handwriting on the door. I drop my keys on the counter and put Roger's guitar in his room. I've abandoned my practice of waiting up for him, since he hasn't stayed out unreasonably late in months, so retreat to my own room, remove my shoes, jacket, and glasses. I tangle myself in the sheets of my own bed and eventually fall asleep.  
  
* I roll over and squint to see the clock... looks like... 3:25? 8:25? I reach for my glasses. 3:25. I drag myself out of bed and open Roger's door to peer at his bed, which is... empty. I sigh loudly and immediately notice that I am the only person in the loft. What the hell? He's usually home by this time. There aren't any messages, so I go sit on the couch to resume my waiting-up-for-Roger game. If he's not home by 4:00 I'm going out to look for him. This wouldn't be out of the ordinary if it were five months ago, but recently, Roger is always home by 2:00 at the absolute latest.  
  
I start a book and by the time I'm done with a few chapters, it's 4:19. I get myself dressed and go out to look for Roger.  
  
Brownies is closed, the Life is closed, the Alphabet Lounge is closed. Unwillingly, I decide to check Mars Bar, just in case. There are still a lot of people coming in and out of the door, and I go in. Through the thick cloud of smoke, I unsuccessfully scan the premises for Roger. I turn around to leave.  
  
"Maaark!" I hear from behind me. I turn around and there he is, sitting at a table, laughing with Russ and company. "Mark!" He waves me over. He's not wearing his jacket, but he is wearing a trashy-looking blonde girl sipping a beer and holding a cigarette.  
  
My stomach drops and I can't believe him. I walk over to him and look into his dilated pupils. I look down at his arm and I see a fresh track mark. He's high. He's fucking high. He breathes into my face. And drunk. I cannot fucking believe this.  
  
"Roger..."  
  
"Hey Mark, care to join us?" Russ waves a hand at me and smiles.  
  
"Roger can I talk to you for a minute?"  
  
"Noo, Mark. Talk to me here." He really acts like a little kid when he's like this.  
  
"Roger," I grab his arm which is not around the Mars Bar whore-of-the- night, and pull him away from the table.  
  
"Mark! God! What?"  
  
"What the fuck are you doing?"  
  
"What? I'm hanging out with the guys..." He turns to look at them.  
  
"No, you're fucking drunk and high. Do you know what the fuck you're doing to yourself?"  
  
"I don't fucking care," He puts his face close to mine and smiles innocently.  
  
"We're going home."  
  
"No. You're going home. I'm staying."  
  
"Bullshit. I'm going home and you're coming with me." I go and grab his jacket off the chair.  
  
"Mark! Leave me the fuck alone." He's starting to get angry now.  
  
"Roger. No. Let's go," I grab his arm and pull him towards the door.  
  
I hear assorted comments from their table, "Roger! What does Mommy think you're staying out too late?", "Leave him the fuck alone!", and "See you around, cutie pie."  
  
Roger tries to put up a fight, but he's so fucked up he can barely walk, never mind try to fight me to stay.  
  
"Mark, what the fuck was that? I'm going back there." When he realizes he can't stand without my help, he decides to stay with me. He mumbles my name, but after that, we walk in silence. I watch clouds of gray frosty air out of Roger's mouth as we retreat home. Thankfully it isn't far and I unlock the first floor door with my key, while half-holding Roger. We walk up the stairs slowly and together until we're standing next to his bed and I lay him down on it. I take off his shoes and jacket, then put him under the covers. I get him a glass of water and as I'm about to leave he grabs my hand.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
I nod, "I know." 


	8. Next Morning

Disclaimer: The obvious characters belong to Jonathan Larson. The song used is "Turpentine Chaser" by one of my favorite bands- Dashboard Confessional.  
  
Author's Note: Well here we go- my summer is almost over and I *still* don't have this fully posted, but I'll get to it. I just forget easily. Enjoy!  
  
  
  
  
  
I get up at a reasonable time the next morning and Roger's still sleeping. I make myself breakfast and unearth a box of unlabeled film reels. I knew they were there; I've just been looking for time to sort through them. I sit in a folding chair next to the projector propped up on a phone book.  
  
I put the first reel on and images of a young Roger and me riding on the subway, walking through the streets of the Village, playing basketball, and going to get Roger tattooed flash on the wall. I switch reels to find one of Maureen moving all her stuff in. Collins filmed most of it, since I'd been recruited to carry boxes up the five flights of stairs. The next reel is some performance of Maureen's. Another one is me, Roger, Collins, and Maureen running around Tompkins Square Park in the snow. I film Collins and Maureen throwing snow until Roger gets me right in the head and the camera shoots the trees and buildings instead of my companions. The next one is an acoustic gig of Roger's from the Pyramid Club, before the band, before he started using. His smooth voice blends with innocent chords and dancing notes.  
  
"Hey," Roger's voice cuts through my concentration on the wall. I look up at him. He's now wearing blue and white plaid pajama pants, which sag a little at the waist.  
  
"Hey," I pause and notice his attire, "What'd you change in the middle of the night?"  
  
"Yeah," He walks over to me and watches himself tune his guitar on film. He's noticeably sweating and shaking, obviously still not immune to withdrawal symptoms. We stay quiet for a while until I feel him looking at me, but I don't turn to meet his gaze.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
I don't give him the same reaction of last night, "Why?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Why? I don't understand why."  
  
He shrugs, "It feels good." His form on the wall starts singing.  
  
"This paint has been tasting of lead, And their chips will fall as they may, But it's not just my finish that's peeling, And it is not alone fleeing these walls..."  
  
This is bullshit. If we talk about this now, it's going to be honest and full-fledged. I stare at him for a few seconds, "Don't give that shit," I pause, "Can we just honestly talk about this?"  
  
He sits down and holds his head in his hands. He closes his eyes, "Fine. You want to talk about this?" I stare at him, "I need it. It's the only thing that can make me feel good. For some time, it can make me feel like maybe I'm not worthless."  
  
"...Well sooner or later this cold it's gonna break And our hands will be warm again, But all I want is not to need you now. And sooner or later this cold it's gonna break And our words will be heard again, But all I want are vows of silence now..."  
  
I stare at him... How can he ever possibly think he's worthless? He is worth everything to me and I can't imagine how he can feel that way.  
  
"It helps me forget and escape and deal."  
  
"But it's destroying you, it'll killing you."  
  
"No, we both know what's killing me, and I don't care."  
  
"But you're just hiding. You can't deal in any other way? What about your music? What about--"  
  
"Oh I'm hiding?"  
  
"Don't fucking turn this to me."  
  
He stands up, "Fine, FINE. I'm weak and I'm hiding and I'm killing myself, but I. don't. care."  
  
Now I stand up, "I care. I care. You don't know what the fuck it's like to see someone kill themselves. You don't know what it's like to see someone you would give your life for waste theirs," I usually don't go on like this, but this needs to be done and I've waited this long. I walk past Roger and go into his room; I go into the top drawer of his side table and obtain a needle and a plastic bag of the white powder. I return to Roger and roll up my sleeve, "Come on. Which vein is it? You should know! Is it this one?" I'm showing him my arm and yelling now. He stands looking at me but I get no response from him. I walk over to the drawer in the kitchen and get a spoon we've since stolen. I'm almost screaming, "I just have to melt it right? Come on Roger I don't have all DAY," My words are sharp blades cutting through soft sound of Roger's song in the background of my screams.  
  
"Don't do it," He's almost inaudible compared to my screams, but I hear him.  
  
"What? No, I'm doing it." I take a lighter off the table and begin to fumble with the plastic bag.  
  
"Mark."  
  
"FINE. I can do it on my OWN," I have tears in my eyes now but I won't let them fall.  
  
He stalks over to me and knocks everything out of my hands. The lighter, the plastic bag, the spoon go crashing to the floor and the needle smashes into a thousand shards of glass around our feet. I'm silent and don't move. The only sound comes from the projector still playing Roger's song,  
  
"...The frightening facts We've been facing our backs To for so long now Are begging for eyes to bear witness To lies and indifference..."  
  
We both stand and stare at each other. His eyes are wide and worried and I break. Tears fall down my cheeks and I try in vain to wipe them from my pallid cheeks, "See?" I speak softly now, "Do you see what it's like to see someone you love..." I die out and don't know how to finish the sentence as soon as the words leave my mouth. I speak slowly through my tears anyway, "You say you're worth nothing, but you're worth everything to me... If no one cares then who am I? I go out and I look for you and I wait up for you when you're not home. I stay up and I think about you... If no one loves you then why am I the happiest I've ever been when I wake up in your bed?" I pause and with tears in his eyes, he says nothing.  
  
"Do you feel like no one can save you?" I offer to him, "I've felt like that. But do you know who saved me? You. You saved me. I don't understand why you can't let me save you. Why can't I be enough?" I wipe my tears again with my sleeve.  
  
The room gets smaller and I can't bear to be standing in front of him anymore. I'm not used to crying and I feel too vulnerable and scrutinized under his gaze. I want a response from him but I cannot stand to be in that room a second longer. I walk towards the door and shards of glass crunch under my shoes.  
  
"Now we're saying aloud The things we've declared in our silence. That new coats of paint Will not reacquaint Broken hearts to broken homes..."  
  
His bare feet stand in the same spot and he watches me leave and slam the door. 


	9. Consecutive

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters etc. belong to Jonathan Larson. Also the quotations (on the door) in this chapter belong to Radiohead ("Creep"), Nine Days ("If I Am"), Third Eye Blind ("Jumper"), Staind ("For You"), Guster ("Airport Song"), Hoobastank ("Crawling in the Dark"), and Dashboard Confessional ("Living in Your Letters), respectively.  
  
Author's Note: Ahh much mushiness ensues! Hope you guys enjoy it.  
  
  
  
  
  
I ran from the loft as fast as I could and down the stairs of our building. Still with tears in my eyes, I lightly knock on Rick's door. He answers quickly and immediately invites me in, noticing my demeanor.  
  
"Mark, hey. Are you okay?"  
  
"Yeah..." I pause, "Yeah," I dab my eyes with my sleeves and sit down on his brown couch. He brings me a glass of water and sits down facing me.  
  
I close my eyes and he looks at me, "Wanna tell me what happened?"  
  
"Not really."  
  
"Well you show up hysterical on my doorstep and I don't get any kind of explanation?"  
  
I sigh, "Roger and I had a fight."  
  
"Okay..."  
  
"Well, not so much a fight as it was me yelling at him."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"He didn't come home last night."  
  
I looked at Rick and he nods his head, understanding what that means. He rests his elbow on the back of the couch and supports his face with it.  
  
"So I went out to look for him."  
  
"And found him at..."  
  
"Mars Bar."  
  
Rick takes a deep breath, "What did you say to him this morning?"  
  
"I asked him why. He said that it's the only thing that makes him feel he's not worthless."  
  
"Mm... And you said?"  
  
"That he's worth everything to me, and then I almost shot up in front of him until he knocked it out of my hands," I look down at my left arm; my sleeve is still rolled up. I return it to its normal position, "And I asked him why he couldn't let me save him." I take a sip of water, "Then I left."  
  
"Did he react at all?"  
  
"Not really. I think he needs time to digest it all," I pause and look at Rick, "I really do want to save him."  
  
"I know. You're an amazing friend to him."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"Do you at least understand why now?"  
  
"I guess. But I don't understand why... why I'm not enough," I look at him, then away.  
  
"Hey, you are. You're more than enough, and if he doesn't see that then there's something wrong."  
  
"Hey, maybe he doesn't see it, but maybe he does. It's not like he doesn't appreciate me."  
  
"Well he doesn't seem like it."  
  
"How would you know?" I'm getting angry and I'm not sure why I'm defending Roger so avidly. What if he really doesn't think I'm enough? What if he really doesn't see me the way I see him?  
  
"Look, I'm sorry. I just... I don't want to see you under appreciated. You're an amazing person, and I hate seeing you get hurt," He stops talking and I'm concentrating intently on the door to his bedroom over his shoulder. Catching me completely off guard, he kisses me. His lips cover mine for the most awkward few seconds I can remember.  
  
I pull away from him, look at the floor, and take a deep breath, "I should go..." How can this happen today? Now of all times? I cannot handle this now.  
  
"Wait. I'm sorry that wasn't..." He fades out.  
  
"Yeah..." I walk towards the door, but stop. Why do I feel guilty for not having feelings for him? But I love Roger; Rick knows that. We talk about it all the time.  
  
And then it hits me that the fact that Rick is a guy didn't even cross my mind; it doesn't even matter to me. The only thing that matter is that I don't have the same feelings he apparently has been harboring for me. Does this mean I'm gay? Or bi? I guess it doesn't really matter. The gender of the person doesn't matter; the person matters.  
  
"Mark, I'm sorry. I know you don't feel the same way."  
  
"It's okay. I just don't feel--"  
  
"I know."  
  
"I should go."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
I walk out the door and back up the stairs, to the person who matters the most to me. I'm slowly contemplating what just happened... And the fact I have to talk to Roger when I go back into the loft. I'm not even so sure I should tell him about Rick. I stop outside our door and examine past quotations scrawled on the door in black marker...  
  
'You're so fucking special, I wish I was special...'  
  
'The answers we find are never what we had in mind, so we make it up as we go along. If you don't talk of dreams, I won't mention tomorrow...'  
  
'Everybody's got to face down the demons. Maybe today we can put the past away...'  
  
'Are my screams loud enough for you to hear me?'  
  
'Learn to love the price you pay...'  
  
'Assure me it's okay to use my heart and not my eyes to navigate the darkness...'  
  
'So I'll hit the pavement, it's gotta be better than waiting...'  
  
...Collected lyrics to favorite songs over the years that fit situations with girlfriends, parents, bands, friends, and each other make me realize the depth of my relationship with Roger. We have been through hell together and it's not even near possible for someone else to understand it all.  
  
I finally muster up the courage to go in, still unprepared of how to react or even tell Roger about what just happened. I walk in and the broken glass is swept into a pile by the table. The apartment is motionless, but there's a window open. I walk over to it and realize Roger probably climbed to the roof. I climb out the window and up the fire escape to the roof to see Roger leaning over the edge, gazing at the street below.  
  
"Hey."  
  
He looks up, "Hey."  
  
I see him turning over the little bag of white powder in his hand. He sees me gazing at it and looks into my eyes. He breaks out eye contact and looks down at the bag. He opens it and empties it over the edge of the building. The find white powder floats down towards the street five stories below. He looks back at me and I give him a small smile. I walk and stand next to him, looking over the edge.  
  
He speaks after a few minutes, "Did you mean what you said before?"  
  
I look up at him, "Yeah... yeah. I did."  
  
He just nods. A few seconds later he moves his hand to cover mine. I don't respond with an action or look up at him, but I feel his gaze resting on my face.  
  
"Thank you," His words are quiet and choked; he looks away from me back toward the street. I can tell he's scared out of his mind. He's putting himself on the line and sharing his emotions; something like this is so rare to escape him.  
  
I turn my hand over so our fingers interlock; I step away from the ledge and turn my body to face his and kiss him. Slowly, gently, softly, lovingly... I lose track of time; we break apart. I look to my left so the bright sunshine creates a soothing warmth on my face.  
  
"Mark," I look back at him, "You did save me. You've always been enough." 


	10. January

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Jonathan Larson. One would think that after all this time I would have found some way to kidnap them. But no, I haven't. Anyway, the song used is by John Rzeznik of the Goo Goo Dolls.  
  
Author's Note: Well here it is- the last chapter! I'm kindof sad to see it go up, despite the fact I wrote it a while ago. Thank you all for the consistant and supportive reviews, I appreciate them more than you know. Hopefully I'll keep writing and you all will keep reading. This chapter is pretty fluffy- a bit of a follow-up. But what else would you expect from me?  
  
January:  
  
Curls of smoke crawl their way up to my eyes as I scan the crowd at Brownies for Rick. Roger's first big "headlining" gig is tonight- he's really starting to make an underground name for himself. He gets more solo gigs, more people coming up to him to talk; he actually has a small sized fan base who devotedly attend his regular gigs. He's also in negotiations for a demo.  
  
Roger and I are... together. We hug; we kiss, no matter I time of day it is. Roger's eliminated drugs from his life, claiming I'm his new drug. We're happy, together, boyfriends, whatever you want to call us. We don't really label ourselves and I've never heard him refer to me as his boyfriend. We don't readily tell people, but if people see us together, they deal with it.  
  
Rick still comes to gigs with me. After the little mishap, I told and explained it to Roger who laughed and said something about me being a skank. Rick and I talked about it, and he admitted to having a crush on me, but had never planned to act on it. It was understood, and we got over it.  
  
I see Rick's black hair and take the empty seat left open for me at the table off to the back, near the bar. Roger's already onstage tuning his guitar.  
  
"Hey. Want a drink? I just ordered."  
  
"Nah, no thanks."  
  
"You sure? My treat."  
  
"Corona," Rick waves the bartender over and I order.  
  
The audience begins to applaud as Roger greets them into the mic. He plays a set of songs I've heard and long since memorized, until the last one. He introduces it as he looks at me, "This is a new song, actually. I wrote it while I was having a hard time dealing with some feelings," He smiles, "I'd like to dedicate this to Mark."  
  
He's never even showed any kind of affection at a gig before, and now he's telling an entire room of strangers that this song is for me. There's a low murmur in the crowd and they follow his eyes to the back of the room and turn to look at me. I can't help but smile at him, who's trying to stifle a smile himself. His nimble fingers glide effortlessly over the strings and I immediately recognize the introduction as the song he's been playing lately in the loft; the one that I've never heard all of, except for mumbles of words that he sings too softly to be heard. He rests one foot on the bar of the stool, and the other foot sits on the floor. He closes his eyes and begins to sing a song I know is meant for me...  
  
"Stranger than your sympathy, This is my apology. I'm killing myself from the inside out, And all my fears have pushed you out.  
  
I wish for things that I don't need, All I wanted... And what I chase won't set me free. All I wanted... And I get scared but I'm not crawling on my knees.  
  
Oh yeah, everything's all wrong, yeah. Everything's all wrong, yeah. Where the hell did I think I was?  
  
Stranger than your sympathy, I take these things so I don't feel. I'm killing myself from the inside out; Now my head's been filled with doubt.  
  
It's hard to lead the life you choose, All I wanted... When all your luck's run out on you. All I wanted... You can't see when all your dreams are coming true.  
  
Oh yeah it's easy to forget, yeah. You choke on the regrets, yeah. Who the hell did I think I was?  
  
Stranger than your sympathy, All these thoughts you stole from me. I'm not sure where I belong; Nowhere's home and I'm all wrong.  
  
And I wasn't all the things I tried to make believe I was. And I wouldn't be the one to kneel Before the dreams I wanted. And all the talk and all the lies Were all the empty things disguised as me. Yeah stranger than your sympathy... stranger than your sympathy..."  
  
He doesn't look at me throughout the song, but instead closes his eyes as I concentrate on him. His voice is so natural and rough from years of smoking, but it has a soothing effect on me... It's comforting; I've heard his voice for so many years and it's been a constant sound that's lulled me too sleep countless times. Just hearing it lets me slip into a familiar world where nothing matters but him and me.  
  
The last notes dance around in my head as he thanks the audience above their cheers. He puts his guitar away, walks over to me and immediately plants a kiss on my lips. He's never shown this kind of affection somewhere like this before. I always thought he'd want to preserve his "image." But he wraps his fingers in mine, puts his other hand on my face, and pulls close to me and whispers, "I love you" in my ear, inaudible to everyone but me. We separate and he puts down his guitar. People start coming up to him and he answers their questions and talk to them willingly, still holding my hand.  
  
Rick had gone home when Roger's set was over, and now everyone has pretty much dispersed. We put on our jackets and head out the door into the brisk air, holding hands and huddling together to vainly keep warm.  
  
*  
  
"Wanna go to the roof?"  
  
"Not really."  
  
"Come on... why not?  
  
"It's 40 degrees out! You'll get sick."  
  
"You can keep me warm, I'll be fine."  
  
"No. It's too cold out."  
  
"Mark," He makes those puppy dog eyes at me, "Please?"  
  
"No!" He doesn't look away and I sigh, "Fine..."  
  
We climb out the window and up the fire escape to the roof. He walks over to the corner and lifts up a blue blanket I recognize.  
  
"You planned this," I should have known.  
  
He shoots me a guilty smile, walks over to me and wraps us both up with his arms around my waist, while holding the blanket around us.  
  
"See? I'm warm already."  
  
I roll my eyes at him as he brings his lips to mine; I lift my hands to the back of his neck and intensify the kiss. Feelings of familiarity, lust, intimacy, desire, passion, comfort, and love wash over me as we break apart. He leans his forehead on mine and gives me another short kiss. I turn around and he keeps his hands around my waist. He nuzzles his head into my neck and kisses it. Even after a month and a half, I'm still in disbelief that this is actually happening... I can't remember life before this feeling, and I'm completely content living that way.  
  
  
  
-end- 


End file.
